The Hills Have Eyes. Was that the one movie where Hannibal Barca got imprisoned and then helped the police catch a serial killer? Cereal killer though. That was the real punchline. At least Irene thought it was funnier than whatever Noah was blathering on about now. But still, maybe there was still a morsel of genius or wisdom somewhere in his monologue. She wasn't especially keen on sticking around now, she was for all intents and purposes ready to flip the proverbial bird and fly one over the cuckoo nest. But she couldn't just walk out the door, even though she was in all aspects legal through physical capable of doing so.

So instead she allowed her thoughts to critically dissect her friend-turned-nuisance's methodologies.

One: Wait, so did Pina die or something? Damn, it was about time.

Two: Irene thought this one was kinda true. Hey, if people talked enough she tended to laugh at some point, so it was valid right? But wait, what was with the random ass pause? Was he trying to be funny or something?

Three: No dang it, Pina was still alive. But in a dumpster now. Where she belonged. Oh man, was she starting to be overly harsh? Perhaps, but wasn't the only acceptable policy brinkmanship? The Cold War had proved that well enough. Maybe. But maybe Irene had to sympathize with a fellow woman against her oppressor. Noah was the one hypothetically throwing Pina out of and into stuff, after all. Wait, wasn't Pina the one Irene hated, not the Noah behind the mask? Sheesh, where did the metaphor even begin?

When Noah Whitley left the stage and proclaimed he was never even there Irene Djezari followed suit. Boom. Like she'd never even entered the building, she was gone. Except for the empty basket with her oversize tip still hidden underneath, that still stayed. And her wallet, she also left that one behind sitting rather conspicuously on the bar counter. Besides all that though it was like Irene had never stepped foot in the Cheryl's establishment, not since last weekend at any rate.

-----

She had her phone out on the way home, walking in the balmy air of a desert at twilight. At first she'd been typing up a storm Noah's way, but as she struggled to find the proper words to rant incoherently with she was distracted by the sudden inkling to figure out what Mad Max really was. Was it really the apocalyptic work that might or might not have been by Tolstoy that she was imagining? The answer was almost definitely no, but she could at least entertain the thought. She shoved the notepad app draft for her angrily worded letter aside, to join many other forgotten drafts like her half-completed screenplay. 'It's like Toradora, but the angry chick is even angrier!'((Irene Djezari continued in Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses))